Musings of a Daily Planet Intern
by Krys1
Summary: Just some musings of an investigative reporter lost in the halls of a hotel in an alcohol-induced haze while in possession of a teddy bear named “Clarkie”. Consider yourself warned.


**Title:** Musings of a Daily Planet Intern

**Author:** Krys

**Email:** firerebellion@yahoo.com

**Category:** Chloe humor

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** As much as I'd like to, I don't own them. There. I said it.

**Author's Notes:** This fic is what results when the author is deprived not only of sleep when it's well past midnight, but also of a sufficient amount of alcohol. Therefore, she should not be held responsible for what appears in this fic in the morning-after. Yes, folks, this is me sober. Scary, isn't it?

**Summary:** Just some musings of an investigative reporter lost in the halls of a hotel in an alcohol-induced haze while in possession of a teddy bear named "Clarkie". Consider yourself warned.

*

 It had been long ago decided that, when left to oneself for long periods of time in an empty hotel room, nothing good can come of it. Especially when there's nothing to do but stare at the wall and wallow in my own self-pity. No, wait – I don't mean wallowing. _Pondering how my so-called pathetic excuse of a life could exist in this hallow, vast wasteland of human indecencies. _But definitely not wallowing. Chloe Sullivan does not wallow. Especially not when there's, um, plenty of work to be done. Right. But first a teensy little trip to the minibar across the room.

 An hour and a half later, I finally reach my destination of the bed and lay down. I fish around in my bag for my notebook with – you've guessed it – all my notes in it, but it's not here. Weird. Maybe I left it back at the Daily Planet. Grabbing my bag, I start to head out the door when it dawns on me – the Daily Planet isn't exactly open at one in the morning. Oh well, when has breaking into the newsroom stopped me before? Oh, right. When I got arrested last week for breaking into the newsroom. Well, that wasn't exactly my fault! How was I supposed to know that that was illegal? And by that, I mean illegal _for me. _I'm a reporter; I have needs. And those needs come in the form of a particular notebook, among other things.

 Oh well. I guess the expose on how President Bush was replaced by a clone that is secretly Ross Perot will just have to wait until tomorrow. A shame, really.

 What does one do when in a hotel room – and _alone_, might I stress – at one in the morning?

 Yep, my thoughts exactly. Spy on the maid. Genius. Muahahah.

 I grab my bag from where I was previously sprawled out on the bed, and head out into the hall. No one there. Just as I suspected. After all, it's _one in the morning._ I mean, who's up and about in the hall at one in the morning? Oh wait, never mind. Blame it on the missing notebook.

 Calling myself "Agent Hwang Duck Wong" (missing notebook, people), I – quite dramatically – creep alongside the wall in a very James-Bond-like fashion while holding my teddy bear I named Clarkie as a weapon. Yes, I think I've had a relapse of sanity too. 

 Oomph! Wall. Ouch. I swear, that wall just popped up out of the floor from nowhere.

 I wait. A few minutes pass and still no sign of the maid. Oh well. There goes my back-up story. Maybe I should just write about the war crisis in the Middle East. You know, something important.

 Nah. I mean, who wants to read that?

 Heading back in the direction of my room, it doesn't take me very long to figure out I'm lost, even in my current state. Who made all the doors and hallways alike? Shouldn't they be different or something? With your name plated in gold on the front? No?

 I finally find my door and make my way inside the darkened room. Everything seems to be spinning at this point. Humming the theme of Charlie's Angels, I crawl into the bathroom. Funny, I don't remember the bathroom to look like this. Everything's flipped, like looking into a mirror. It's only after a few minutes do I realize my mistake. Wrong bathroom. Happens all the time.

 I climb into the bed sleepily while clutching Clarkie to my chest. And you know, I was just about to drift off to never-never-land when I'm oh-so-rudely interrupted by someone screaming at me to get the hell out of their room. Honestly. People can be so touchy.

 Wondering aimlessly through the halls until – alas! – I find the maid. I talk about being locked out of my room, so I had to climb into bed with someone I don't know. She kind of looks at me funny at this point, but I've begun telling her my life story and all about Clark and Lana's relationship. Again, I am _not _wallowing. After a pause, she just blinks and asks for my key. I hand it to her, and lo and behold! The room number is printed on the key. Heh. Who knew? Oh, you did? Shut up.

 Having another drink, I stay up for a little while longer and send a few e-mails. Then I barely make it to the bed before passing out. When I wake up (and feeling like Party of Five was cancelled all over again, thank you very much), I find myself lying on the floor surrounded by the entire contents of the minibar. And yes, even the beer nuts are gone.

 Stretching, I reluctantly ply myself up from the floor, instantly regretting this once the full force of my hangover hits. Wow, journalism can be cruel. The things I do, all in the name of a good story.

 Speaking of stories, I turn on my laptop to see if I have any e-mail, perhaps from some sources. I check my inbox, and am pleased to see that there is an e-mail from Clark. I smile and double click on it. It doesn't take long before that smile quickly fades, though. Because all that Clark wrote to me was:

"Clarkie?"

THE END


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